


Report

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-20
Updated: 2012-11-20
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:50:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some sticky with a side order of asphyx for tf-rare-pairing, Megatron/Deadlock. Skirts the prompt but hey, it's porn. Whaddaya want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Report

Deadlock stalked down the ramp of the small jump-cutter, red optics glowering at the lading officer who tried to thrust a datapad at his chest. “Megatron,” Deadlock said, the word pushing through his moutplates with that way that said that was about the only word he intended to say.

“Busy,” the lading officer said, airily. Hardly the first attitude he’d gotten from some lower command cadre trying to act fully-fledged.

Deadlock stopped, the magna clamps on his feet engaging and disengaging in irritation. “Megatron,” he repeated, lowering his helm, bullishly.

The officer tried to stare him down, but caved before the hard red glare. “I’ll comm him. But after that…?”  Not his problem.  And if Megatron wanted to ream Deadlock? Well, he would get the front row seats.

Deadlock gave a snort, arms folding over his chassis. “He’ll see me.”

“If you say so.” He sent the ping on his datapad, turning the screen to show it to Deadlock. See? Done my part.

Deadlock smirked, a moment later, at the return acknowledgement.  “Told you.”

The lading officer quirked an optic. “Probably means he wants to chew you out.”

“Right,” Deadlock said, turning toward the central hub.

[***]

He was still smirking when he folded his arms behind his back, in front of Megatron. He could feel the other’s optics on him, and he could already feel a sort of tension, excited and alive, building in his belly.

“Discreet arrival, as usual,” Megatron said, drily, looking up from a datapad he was assiduously pretending to study. He could feel the electric tension from Deadlock as well.

“Wouldn’t want you to miss it.” Deadlock rocked forward on his toes.

He was, as Megatron knew, entirely incapable of masking emotion.  His only weakness.  “Considerate of you.”

“I try.”

“Trying, at any rate.”  Megatron rose, laying the datapad aside, his optics catching Deadlock’s, keeping the red optics locked to his as he moved closer.  He stretched a hand, sliding it along the depths of Deadlock’s spaulder.  “Your report.”

A shrug, deliberately insolent, deliberately sliding the spaulder under Megatron’s hand. “The usual. Turmoil.”

“Have you considered, Deadlock, that the problem between you and Turmoil is,” Megatron tweaked one of the helm finials almost fondly, “you?”

“No.” Simple, flat, direct. Megatron probably shouldn’t find Deadlock as amusing as he did.  There was a kind of trust he had with Deadlock he couldn’t have with anyone: the mech’s motives were crystalline clear, and he was so incapable of deceit.

Deadlock’s helm tilted up, optics finding his, half-lidded in desire as Megatron stroked one thumb up the length of a finial.

“Want something, Deadlock?”  Megatron let his engine rev, the baritone sound filling the space between them.  It was admitting he wanted Deadlock, but it was also a bait.

As though Deadlock needed to be baited.

“Yes.” Another flat sound, almost truculent, the mouth twitching into an impatient frown.

“Let me guess.” Megatron felt one side of his mouth lift in a smile, stepping in closer, letting his EM field brush into Deadlock’s, feeling the fuzz of the other’s eager desire against him.  “You want to complain about Turmoil some more.”

The smaller mech nearly vibrated against him, the almost perennial glower wavering, the optics twitching with indecision.  It had been a long time since Megatron had felt the urge to laugh, but he felt it now, bubbling up from deep in his chassis as he jerked Deadlock closer, hands splaying over the smaller’s back, jerking him off-balance, against his own flat chestplate.

Deadlock’s hands came up, on reflex, clutching at Megatron’s uppser arms, fingertips finding little gaps in the armor. 

Megatron lifted, Deadlock’s armor scraping over his as his feet left the ground, his head tilting over, the frowning mouth changing shape as it sought out Megatron’s throat, nipping at the cables, his desire so easy to read it would be laughable if it weren’t, right now, exactly what Megatron wanted.

It was two steps to the table, and he carried Deadlock over, easily, the smaller mech’s thighs wrapping around his hips as they transferred weight with each step, until he set Deadlock down on the table.  Deadlock’s hands twined up over his shoulders, around his neck, the smaller engine thrumming against him.

“So,” Megatron said. “Turmoil.”

“Frag Turmoil,” Deadlock muttered, barely lifting his mouth from the hot patch he’d created on Megatron’s throat, tightening his grip around the hips to bump his interface hatch pointedly against Megatron’s.

“But _you’re_ here,” Megatron said, reasonably.

Deadlock gave an irritated growl, lifting his head. “I am,” he said, almost sullen, challenging.

Megatron tipped his chin at the other mech. “Kiss me.”

The resistance was a fascinating display: Deadlock had that line he didn’t want to cross, some ancient scruple.  And Megatron found it fascinating, the way defiance and desire warred on Deadlock’s face, before one hand hooked up behind his helm, drawing him down, mouth against Deadlock’s. It wasn’t a gentle kiss—it was pure hunger, pure need, and he could almost taste the tang of resistance, a sweet flavor of victory that obedience had won. That he had won.

He leaned forward, pushing Deadlock back, one hand bracing his weight as Deadlock’s backstruts curled down against the cool surface.  Megatron created just enough space between their bodies to fit his hand, snapping open their interface hatches.  Deadlock’s mouth pushed against his with something verging on desperation, curling his pelvic span up into the touch as Megatron released his spike, the slick length of it sliding over Deadlock’s equipment covers.

Air seethed from Deadlock’s ventilation vents against him as he sawed his spike over the other’s covers, lubricant sliding cool and wet over the warm metal.

Deadlock gave some garbled sound, half a cry of frustration, half a plea, as his valve cover released, his entire body twitching with arousal.

Megatron pulled back from the kiss—such as it was—with a quick nip on Deadlock’s lower lip plate. A harbinger, it was, he thought, as he rolled his hips back and then forward, sheathing himself in the small valve with one smooth, forceful thrust.

Deadlock’s head fell back, optics vague and unseeing, mouth still glossy from the kiss.  Deadlock’s valve was impossibly snug, strained to take Megatron’s girth, the mesh stretched around him, taut.

Deadlock couldn’t mask this, either: the open lust, how much he wanted this. Even if he could master his body’s quivering, he couldn’t control the fluttering of the valve calipers.  His optics squeezed shut as Megatron thrust in, his face that perfect, intoxicating blend of pain and pleasure, a surfeit of both, tangled together in a complicated knot.

Megatron pushed up, one hand crossing the other’s throat, testing another limit as he pressed in. Deadlock’s optics flicked open, and he could feel the struggled gasp. He smirked as he moved against Deadlock’s body, the smirk tightening from the strain, edging into something almost like a snarl, hard-edged and possessive. With his hand over Deadlock’s throat, with his spike, he claimed Deadlock: his pleasure, his pain, his very life, throbbing under the webbing of Megatron’s hand.

Deadlock’s hands clung to his wrist, almost, but not quite, moving to try to tear his hand away, clinging even as he surrendered, his body thrashing and bucking between the two forces.  Through it all, his optics were steady, wide with something like alarm, but fixed on Megatron’s face, earnest and intense, unresisting.

The overload came fast and hard, a blinding hammerblow of release, striking sparks between them. Deadlock arched up, the force of it giving him the power to raise his body—Megatron’s hand over his throat and all—off the desk’s surface.

They hung there, for a long moment, the war, the past, everything stripped aside, torn into fragments, ballistic and violent, optics locked, red on red, the optics of those who had been deemed underground, irrelevant, less than others. Wasted, useless sparks no one would miss, destined to die a useless, unremembered death.

But right now, they held the world between them.  Now, in this moment, panting and trembling, charge cascading through both their systems, electrical currents interlinked, they were one, fierce and powerful and fearless and defying everything. 

Deadlock dropped back, Megatron’s hand falling away from his throat, landing on his elbows, legs squirming almost shyly against Megatron’s hips. Megatron’s face composed itself from the open, almost vulnerable expression of a moment ago, back to its more familiar smirk, sliding his hands down Deadlock’s thighs.

“Now,” he said, as Deadlock’s own hand brushed his throat, as though ghosting over the touch of Megatron’s throttling fingers, touching the memory. He knew if he bent lower, Deadlock would lean up, and the mouth would meet his in a gentle, seeking kiss. And he knew that he couldn’t allow himself that much indulgence, not after the fragile moment that had just passed between them.  So he solidified the smirk on his face, smearing friction-hot lubricant across Deadlock’s inner thighs with his thumbs, “your report.”


End file.
